


Don't Panic

by theglitterati



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5526479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theglitterati/pseuds/theglitterati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac has a panic attack; Combeferre helps him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Panic

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, of course, from The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.
> 
> Thanks as always to [Carol](http://ronnlynch.tumblr.com), World's Best Beta.
> 
> Trigger warning for general anxiety, and anxiety and panic attacks. The fic does have a very happy ending. Also, if I've written anything incorrect about anxiety disorders or panic attacks, please let me know!

Courfeyrac lets himself into Enjolras and Combeferre’s place after class on Wednesday afternoon. It’s 4:30pm, and he’s beaten both of them to the apartment. No matter; he has a key.

The three of them are supposed to hang out tonight and do homework, which usually means sitting with textbooks and laptops open but completely ignoring them. Both Combeferre and Enjolras are in class until five, so Courfeyrac makes himself comfortable, sitting down on the couch in the living room and opening his laptop.

He plays around a bit, scrolling through his social media sites and checking his bank account. Then he checks his email.

He wishes immediately that he hadn’t. There’s an email from his Ethics professor, and the subject is “Presentation Evaluation”. The presentation was two weeks ago, and Courfeyrac has done his best not think about it since. It was a ten-minute presentation on his final paper topic, and it had gone horribly.

Despite how easy and comfortable Courfeyrac normally found social interaction, presentations had always given him trouble. He had been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder in high school, and presentations were one of the strongest stressors.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he was talking about, or that he didn’t prepare. If anything, he prepared more than others because he knew he would have trouble. But every time he had to give a presentation, he would work himself into hysterics before he got up in front of the class, terrified of forgetting something, and then his anxiety would kick in and he would perform terribly.

This most recent presentation had been particularly bad. Courfeyrac had only been able to talk for five of the ten minutes, even though he had prepared enough to say to fill the entire time. But with his palms tingling and his head dizzy, he kept stuttering over his words, and he ended the presentation early after he kept losing track of what he was saying.

Regardless of the dread he feels at seeing the subject line, he opens the email immediately. _Better to just rip off the Band-Aid_ , he thinks.

He reads the email three times, and then shuts his computer and sets it down on the coffee table, pressing his hands to his face.

The email was two paragraphs long, but only the phrase _I had no choice but to fail your presentation_ sticks in his mind.

He’s getting worked up in his head. He might be bad at presentations, but this is the first time in forever that’s he actually _failed_ an assignment. He’s not the brightest student in any of his courses, but he’s not a _failure_ , either.

Or, apparently, he is. Apparently, he’s just getting worse at public speaking rather than better, which doesn’t exactly bode well for his future legal career.

He tries to calm himself down, but it’s hard, and after years of experiencing panic attacks, he can already tell one is coming. His breathing gets shallower, until he can’t pull in a full breath anymore, and his chest starts hurting. He squeezes his eyes closed and leans over, trying and failing to catch his breath.

A few minutes later, the apartment door opens, though Courfeyrac barely registers it.

“Hey Courf,” Enjolras says casually, taking off his coat. “Courf?” Courfeyrac hears him, but it sounds distorted, like he’s underwater.

“Fuck,” he hears Combeferre mutter. “Enjolras, water.”

Courfeyrac senses when Combeferre sits down on the table in front of him. _Thank fuck you’re here,_ Courfeyrac thinks.

Courfeyrac had had a lot of different experiences with people trying to help him through his attacks over the years. He could deal with them on his own, but sometimes having someone else around to calm him down was helpful. And sometimes it wasn’t.

The first time Enjolras had been around for one, he hadn’t handled it well. What he had done was freaked the fuck out and called an ambulance, and then apologized very meekly to the paramedics when they showed up to find Courfeyrac completely over his attack. Since then, Enjolras had given Courfeyrac space during his attacks, because he couldn’t keep himself calm enough to help. Even now, Courfeyrac hears him set a water bottle down on the table and then excuse himself to his room.

Marius was alright. The first time he had seen one of Courfeyrac’s attacks, he had tried to do ten things at once to help, and had ended up tripping over his own feet and falling. It was funny and distracting enough that Courfeyrac had actually managed to break the cycle of bad thoughts that was going through his head. After that, Marius had made Courfeyrac teach him the proper way to help.

Combeferre was the best, though, by far. First of all, he was the only one with any actual medical training, which helped immensely. But it wasn’t just that; Combeferre always knew exactly how to make Courfeyrac specifically feel better. He knew him better than anyone.

“Fey, it’s me,” Combeferre says now, though Courfeyrac isn’t sure it’s the first time he’s said it. “Can you hear me?”

Courfeyrac is pretty sure that he nods yes.

“Good,” Combeferre continues. “Fey, can you open your eyes for me?”

The nickname helps Courfeyrac feel grounded. It’s what Combeferre called him when they were little kids, because he couldn’t pronounce all of the Rs in Courfeyrac. It reminds Courfeyrac of a time before all of this started. He does open his eyes then, and though he still can’t breathe, seeing Combeferre there with him makes him feel a little bit better.

“Good, you’re doing great,” Combeferre tells him. “I’m gonna take your hands now.”

Combeferre reaches out and takes Courfeyrac’s hands in his. He holds one, rubbing slow circles into Courfeyrac’s palm with his thumb, and places the other so that its palm is on his own chest, against his heart.

“I want you to try and breathe with me now, okay?”

Courfeyrac tries to take a deeper breath, but his lungs feel like they’re on fire. Even though this happens every time, it makes him panic a bit more.

“No, don’t worry, it’s okay,” Combeferre says quickly. “You can take your time. You’re gonna be fine.”

It’s never trying to imitate Combeferre’s breathing that helps. Instead, it’s his heartbeat that finally lets Courfeyrac relax. He focuses on Combeferre’s heartbeat against his hand, trying hard to push everything else out of his brain. Finally, after ten minutes of hyperventilating, he feels his breathing start to slow, the pain in his chest starting to recede.

“Good, Fey, that’s better,” Combeferre says, and though he wore a mask of calm before, the relief is now visible on his face. “That’s so good.”

Courfeyrac takes a minute to let his breathing return to normal. Combeferre opens the water bottle and passes it over. They normally drink tap water in refillable bottles, but the plastic ones are easier for Courfeyrac to drink out of after his attacks, so they keep a few on hand. He takes a few short sips of the water. It hurts to swallow.

“Bed,” he manages to say.

Combeferre nods and helps him off the couch, all but carrying him to his own bedroom. Combeferre passes over a pair of sweatpants for Courfeyrac to change into, then changes into a pair himself. They get under the covers, because, as is usual after his attacks, Courfeyrac is cold and shaking. Combeferre props himself up beside him and pulls Courfeyrac into his chest, warming him with his own body heat.

Courfeyrac is also aware that he’s crying, and likely has been the entire time. Combeferre lets him quietly shed tears against his chest, rubbing his back and not saying a word. He knows to give Courfeyrac some time before he asks any questions.

Finally, Courfeyrac stops crying and wipes his eyes. Combeferre brushes Courfeyrac’s hair off of his forehead and plants a lingering kiss there.

“Do you want to tell me what happened, or no?” Combeferre asks him.

Courfeyrac sighs. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, but he knows he will feel better later if he does. “You remember that presentation that I fucked up?” Combeferre nods. “My prof emailed me; I failed it.”

“Oh,” Combeferre says. “I’m really sorry, Courf.” He hugs him tighter.

“Thanks.”

“Did your professor explain why he gave you that grade?”

Courfeyrac tries to remember what else the email had said. “He said that he was surprised, because it wasn’t up to my usual standard. He asked me to come to his office hours before class tomorrow to discuss it with him.”

“Well, that sounds like a good thing. If you explain to him that you have issues with presentations, maybe you can work something out. Obviously he knows how smart you are, if he said that he was surprised. I have classes all day tomorrow, but Enjolras can probably go with you and wait outside. Or if he can’t, I’ll skip class and come.”

“He’s pretty strict. I can’t really see him changing it…” He trails off before adding, “What if I fail the class?”

“What other grades have you gotten in the class?”

“Two A minuses and a B plus.”

“And how much was this presentation worth?”

“Fifteen percent.”

“Well,” Combeferre says, laughing lightly. “It sounds like it would pretty much impossible for this one bad grade to make you fail the class, then.” Courfeyrac isn’t convinced.

“Look, Courf, you’re not going to fail the class, and even if you ended up with a bad final grade, which I don’t think you will, what’s the worst thing that could happen? You’re other grades are still great, and _you’re_ still great. It’ll be fine.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Courfeyrac grumbles.

“What?” Combeferre asks.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, please tell me.”

“It’s just… I’m sorry, because this isn’t very nice, but sometimes being around you and Enj is really hard on my self-esteem. You’re so studious and organized, and all of your assignments are so well-planned. And Enjolras pulls papers out of his ass the night before they’re due and still gets perfect on all of them. I feel stupid around you two sometimes.”

“Courf,” Combeferre says heavily. “Please don’t ever think that you’re stupid. Enjolras and I might get better grades – though, actually, most of the time yours are just as good, you’re just focusing on the bad ones – but that doesn’t mean that we’re smarter than you.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what it means,” Courfeyrac mutters. “That’s the whole point.”

“No, it’s not,” Combeferre says fervently. “Grades only measure one or two kinds of intelligence, and they happen to be the ones that Enjolras and I excel at. But there’s no way for grades to measure other talents, which you have plenty of.”

“Yeah, I have the “talent” of failing presentations,” Courfeyrac says sarcastically. He knows he’s wallowing now, but he can’t help it. “What else?”

“You have incredible social skills. Enjolras and I would have no other friends if it wasn’t for you,” Combeferre says. “And Les Amis would never have taken off, because we would never have found other members.”

“You’re also way more creative than either of us are, and you’re a better writer. Do you remember when M. Fleury made us write poetry in Grade 11 English? Yours was a million times better than either of ours.”

Courfeyrac has to laugh at that. Enjolras’s poem had been terrible.

Combeferre smiles, which makes Courfeyrac do the same. “Do you believe me now?”

Courfeyrac nods. It might not be ingrained in his mind yet, but for now, he does believe him.

There’s a knock at the door. “I heard laughing,” Enjolras says on the other side. “Can I come in now?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac answers. Enjolras comes in timidly, studying Courfeyrac as if to make sure he’s not going to break.

“Can I give you a hug?” Enjolras asks as he comes to kneel on the bed.

“Jesus, how bad did I look if _you_ want to hug me?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Just… can I?” Enjolras asks petulantly.

Courfeyrac holds his arms open, and Enjolras hugs him.

“I get so worried about you when that happens,” Enjolras says. “What caused it?”

“I got a bad grade on a presentation,” Courfeyrac summarizes. “I have to go talk to my prof tomorrow.”

“Was it because of your anxiety?” Enjolras asks. Courfeyrac nods. “Well,” Enjolras starts, jumping up from the bed, “there’s lots you can do about that. If your prof won’t change your grade, which would be absolutely fucking ridiculous because you have a medical condition keeping you from completing the assignment, then you could go to the head of the department. Or maybe the mental health centre on campus. Actually…”

Courfeyrac feels Combeferre chuckle at Enjolras’s rant, and he leans closer to him, feeling very comfortable, while Enjolras continues coming up with possible solutions on the spot.

Courfeyrac really does have the two best best friends in the world.

***

The next day, Enjolras accompanies Courfeyrac to go meet with his professor.

“How did it go?” Enjolras asks, after Courfeyrac rejoins him in the hall outside of the professor’s office.

Courfeyrac takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says. “I explained that I had anxiety, and he was really understanding. He said that he assumed it must be something like that, because my work is normally good. He said that I can write up what I would have presented and he’ll look that over and change my mark so that it reflects the research I did rather than what I presented.”

“So you can pass it!” Enjolras says excitedly.

“Yeah, I think so,” Courfeyrac says. He feels a million times better than he had the day before, and he feels confident now that he can do well enough on the assignment to keep his class mark high. He’s unable to hide his excitement, and actually does a tiny victory dance.

“It went well, then?” Combeferre says, appearing around the corner.

“What are you doing here?” Courfeyrac asks. “I thought you had class.”

“I left early,” Combeferre shrugs. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. And it seems you are?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Courfeyrac says. Combeferre gives him a quick hug, and Courfeyrac feels his smile grow even bigger.

“Do you guys want to go get lunch?” Combeferre asks. “My treat?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says, taking Combeferre by the hand as the three of them start walking. “That would be great.”


End file.
